


Eyes like Seafoam, Eyes like Wine

by Renabe



Series: Renabe's Works for Fair Game Week 2020 [7]
Category: RWBY
Genre: First Meeting, M/M, Qrow is having a serious internal struggle, Swearing, and it shows, fair game, fairgameweek2020, i know nothing about either of these topics, sailor!Clover, siren au, siren!Qrow, this is all over the place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23267449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renabe/pseuds/Renabe
Summary: Clover hears an enchanting melody while at sea and can't help but seek out the mysterious voice that sings it. Qrow is a lonely siren, banished from his home, not really looking for company. It's just his luck that a beautiful sailor hears his song.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: Renabe's Works for Fair Game Week 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1666021
Comments: 22
Kudos: 81





	Eyes like Seafoam, Eyes like Wine

**Author's Note:**

> FairGameWeek Day 7: AU
> 
> This is the bare beginnings of a Siren AU. I know nothing about sailing or mythology around sirens, but I may sit down and do the research needed to flesh this out into a real story if people are interested.
> 
> Someone on Tumblr suggested/requested a Siren AU (I forget who, but I'll go through and see if I can find that post!)
> 
> One more note, for real. Qrow has very, very mixed feelings about what he thinks he's supposed to be, as a siren, and I didn't have time to explain any of that in this fic. But I would love to dive deeper into that struggle if I continue this.

Clover usually chooses not to sail so far from the shore. Not out of fear for any danger, mind you. He simply never needs to go out terribly far in order to make a good catch. But today, he is not on the water to fish. He simply wishes to feel the wind against his face, the rock of the boat, lose himself to the sensations of being away from land.

He adjusts the sail, guiding the boat along the shift in the wind with ease. His sturdy, muscled arms are bare, save for a vibrant red ascot tied around his left bicep. Beautifully tan from hours under the blazing sun, he moves them in a practiced motion to direct his sailing. His loose, dark grey tank top flutters in the wind, the hem tucked securely into fitted white pants, with a brown belt to keep it all in place. Worn brown boots come up mid-calf, laces tied haphazardly in his hurry to just get out and be free. The breeze plays with the fluffy tuft of hair at his crown, tossing it this way and that, and it all feels so good.

A content sigh escapes Clover as he stands and closes his eyes. Anyone who didn’t know him would call him arrogant, those that did know him would call him lucky, able to keep his balance without sight to guide him. He himself likes to call it skill.

It is then that he hears it, faint, ethereal, almost. It sounds like a song, a hauntingly beautiful song, and the voice that carries it even more so. He turns his head toward the soft melody, noting the masculine pitch, low, and smooth as butter. Teal eyes flick open, and without another thought, he’s shifting his weight, adjusting the sail with a firm pull to send the boat farther north, toward rock formations that lie between the mainland and a few small islands farther out.

He had traveled past these rocks before, once or twice, seeing nothing of interest. But as sure as he knows his way on the waves, he knows there’s something there waiting for him. Perhaps even someone, by the sound of it. Clover is overcome with curiosity. Are they lost? Or do they also sail, and like him, need to be away from the shore sometimes? Taking any kind of boat too close to the jagged rock formations could damage it, so could they be stranded?

Clover’s mind races with endless possibilities, and he only wishes the breeze were stronger, could move him faster toward this new and wonderful mystery.

Suddenly the voice stops. He is very close now, though. Surely he can still find them. Careful maneuvering allows him to secure the boat, lodging it between two well placed rocks jutting out of the water, before anchoring. He climbs up onto the rough stone surface to see what he can see. The cluster of rock formations is more complex up close, connected, even. He takes brave steps, pressing against a wall as his feet move along a small, uneven ledge to inch his way further into a space that was hidden from view while at sea.

He reaches a smooth, flat opening surrounded on almost all sides by natural walls, the only exposed side hidden well by the other stone spears that surge up from the water’s surface.

None of this is what fascinates him though. None of this is what makes his breath hitch, his steps stutter, and his heart stop.

No, Clover is enraptured by a beautiful expanse of ebony wings, so large they couldn't belong to any bird, certainly not one indigenous to the area. They gleam in the rays of the sun, streaks of a lighter color reflecting the light to make themselves known.

The wings seem to tense, feathers ruffling in apprehension. Surely the creature knows he’s there. He makes to take another step, but before he can, those incredible wings brush to the side to reveal a man so striking, it is all Clover can do to stare.

What sits before him is a lean form, very little of which is hidden by some tattered grey garment that is tied about his waist. Scars stand out angrily against the fair skin of his abdomen and chest, a few on his arms and legs as well. Above all that is a deceptively youthful looking face, despite its angular jawline accented with stubble. Black, feathery locks frame his face, wild and untamed, streaked with grey just like his wings. And those eyes that rest in between, wide in alarm, shine an unnatural, yet completely alluring, shade of crimson.

The alarm seems to fade from those red pools, eyebrows knitting together in a sneer. His lips parting to exhale a raspy laugh that holds no humor, he speaks, “As if my luck couldn’t get any worse."

That voice sends a chill through Clover's body, from head to toe. There is a gravelly attractiveness to it, and he needs to hear more. If he asks, would the winged beauty sing again? What even is he? Would he say?

"What the fuck are you looking at, pal?"

Well, shit. What an attitude. Although, Clover concedes to himself, he has been staring for a rather long time. He shakes his head to clear it, admitting, "Was hoping you could tell me." His tone may be a little too playful, so sue him.

The winged man is taken aback, eyebrows rising in confusion, if only briefly. He stands up from his lounging position, posture hostile. Every sailor is raised on stories of sirens, so this man is either really stupid or assumes he can handle one, he thinks. Stupid either way, then. He relaxes his shoulders, he can play this game.

"Just an unfortunate little bird, adrift with tired wings."

"That's a shame. Anything I can do to help?”

The feathered man looks away, brings a hand to the back of his neck in a coy gesture. "I _am_ pretty bored out here by myself. I don't suppose you would be willing to…" He steals another glance at the sailor. "Keep me company?"

It's so easy, it always is. Luring them in is never the problem.

Teal eyes brighten in childlike mirth at the request, and he takes a step forward in excited haste. "I'd love to. Do you mind if I come closer?" So eager.

"Wouldn't be much fun if you didn't," he answers in a low voice.

Clover approaches the winged man impatiently, extending a hand to shake. "My name is Clover. What's yours? Er, do you have one?"

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at this handsome stranger's antics, the siren answers, "I do, but it has a tendency to bring bad luck… Qrow." He intends it to be playful, but as he accepts the offered hand, he winces at a sudden pain. Oh right, there's a fresh cut there, he remembers with disdain.

"You're hurt." Clover's tone is concerned, and he adjusts his hold to inspect a bleeding palm. "Good thing I keep a first aid kit on the sailboat. Lucky you, huh?" He winks and releases the man's hand to run off and fetch the kit.

Qrow stares after Clover in wonder. What a foolish stranger, he thinks, that he follows up mentions of bad luck with a line like that. He ponders, for a moment, the likelihood that the man is just running away. But that _tone_ , that _wink_ , surely he's interested or at least curious enough to stick around for a while. That’s all it takes.

Clover hurries back to his boat, reaching into a small compartment for the little first aid kit. He takes a deep breath before making his way back, trying to wrap his head around the winged beauty’s, around _Qrow’s_ \- and what a name that is- sudden change in demeanor. At first the man seemed ready to act on fight or flight instinct, and wow flight would have been literal flying. Imagining those wings in motion makes Clover feel giddy, butterflies in his stomach. But now, now Qrow is inviting, beckoning him with sultry gestures. And that should probably frighten Clover. It excites him.

He returns to find Qrow seated again, and he plops down in front of him while opening the kit. Reaching out, Clover asks, “May I have your hand?”

Qrow looks at him curiously, debating whether he should trust whatever salve this man is offering for his injury. With a roll of his eyes, he sets his hand palm up in Clover’s and lets him get to work. Watching the sailor is fascinating, Qrow decides, finding amusement in the way his eyes narrow in concentration, lips pursed as he gently cleans excess blood and dirt from the cut. He feels bad for the caring fool, knowing what fate awaits him.

“Shit,” Clover hisses, looking through his kit and realizing he is out of bandages. He could have sworn he had one left.

Qrow is about to laugh at his distress but resists when the emotion is replaced by triumph. He raises an eyebrow as the brunette unties the sash on his arm and begins to wrap it around his hand instead.

Tying off the makeshift wrap, Clover assures, “It’s clean, I promise. Wash it every day.” Once finished, he flashes a brilliant smile, so bright and genuine it burns.

Qrow looks away, gingerly holding his newly treated hand. Why does this idiot have to be so damned kind, he swears inwardly. Does he honestly have no idea the danger he’s in? Squeezing his eyes shut, Qrow tries to remind himself that it’s fun to play with stupid sailors. It’s what he does. Except usually the stupid sailors are arrogant bastards with a whole ship of loot to steal. Not sweet pretty boys with presumably no cargo. Hurting him wouldn’t be fun at all.

“So, uh, Qrow, you said. Was that you I heard singing?”

“Yes.” He knows where this question is headed and doesn’t want to hear it. He refuses to meet the man’s gaze.

“It was a beautiful song.” He means it.

_Stop._

“You have a mesmerizing voice.” He means that even more.

_Don’t._

“Would it be terribly rude of me to ask to hear it again?” The desire in his voice is suffocating.

“Yes!” Qrow barks, more harshly than intended. Wait, he’s supposed to say no. He’s supposed to smile sweetly and sing for the man. He's supposed to-

"I'm sorry."

What?

Qrow turns, bewildered eyes searching for the meaning to those words.

Clover sheepishly scratches the back of his head, gaze cast downward, looking surprisingly small for such a bulky man. "That was presumptuous of me. Especially after treating your hand, it probably sounded like I was looking for some kind of reward. I'm sorry."

The siren blinks, not believing his ears. He leans closer, setting a hand on Clover's knee to draw his attention. He needs to know for sure if the sailor speaks the truth, if he really feels so ashamed just by asking for a silly song. The _silly song_ likely would have been the end of this Clover, but he certainly does not know that.

Big, teal orbs flick up to meet red, embarrassed and shy. Sincere. Where was the cocky flirt from moments ago? 

"Your eyes… they're like seafoam." The words slip from his lips without permission. What was he supposed to be doing, again? He can't remember. Is this what it feels like for all the pitiful humans he's entranced before? Do his eyes draw them in the same way these ocean pools threaten to pull him under, swept up in the current within? Why do they affect him so?

Clover is surprised, this little bird's actions are all over the place. From sultry to shy, now soft and sweet. The butterflies are back, fluttering in his chest as he peers into rich, dark orbs that drip with emotion, ready to spill over the edge like- "Wine…" He realises too late he's said it aloud. Fighting the flush that rises to his cheeks, he leans in earnestly, "Yours are like wine."

Right, that's what he does to them. The thought flows idly through Qrow's mind as he reaches up, fingers brushing against a reddened cheek. Like wine, he'd said.

"Then drink up, _Clover_.”


End file.
